Lena stared into the horizon and felt the cool, impassive breeze stroke against her tresses, her soul, her entity. The vast, wild land before her teemed, brimmed and brewed with possibilities, endless, everlasting, coiling, serpentine gestures of new paths, unfamiliar ventures, cast aside individuals eager for the touch, the taste, the temptation of the undiscovered. Trimmed by primrose, uncertainties and the unknown, untamed and beautiful, free and liberating, choices aligned with different trails, altering routes. Which way would their hearts slide – towards the indignant, the cruel, the malice and menace of gnashing teeth, of perilous friction? Towards the breathless wandering of nomadic wayfarers, crossing over borders and back again, tracing the concept of home until it felt real, corporeal, tangible in their mercurial grasp? Towards curiosity and inquisition, lost in the crescendo and cadence of mysteries, enigmas, ruses and puzzles, trapped, enticed, tempted until they were enamored by the sumptuous declaration of paradoxes and quandaries? Here, she ventured, endeavored, plunged and gambled with the swaying souls, haunted minds, clouded, confused membranes that remained adrift, astray, offering and bestowing a corridor for them to follow, a lane for them to accompany, a world for them to unravel, explore, and immerse within.

Even as she drifted from the North, body encased in the chilling grasp, the raw finesse, and the icy caress of Siberia’s caustic brushstroke, her heart was still warm, tender, fluttering beats of compassion and beneficence. Motions and movements, encased in elegance, derived from nobility, lacquered in finery, pulled from the depths of her calculations, the methodical sketching of her mission. Imogen, brash, bold and audacious in her own sliding, foxy contortions, seemingly floated alongside her companion, skimming leaves and low hanging branches, dashing, dancing, and twirling in the stead of Lena’s nymph waltzing. They were united in their mission, the scent of another stranger tickling against their noses, straying and pulling, beguiling and alluring, until they whirled and swayed into the wind, searched for the outsider. The fairy caught the golden hide first, the slightest caress of champagne and ambrosia not belonging to the sun, not possessed by the trickling dapples of light, and slowed to a gentle pulse. A hum kindled in her throat, a bright, brilliant, calming hymn derived from soothing, assuaging arias, released and extended towards the shivering, shuddering mare. Was there something she was afraid of, to quiver and quaver, or was it the mere depths of the cold, the autumn veil brandished ever further in the stead of shadows? The kitsune reached the fae before Lena, chirped a merry tune at her feet, a welcoming in the absence of words. A smile curled across the fey’s lips before she bowed her head towards the newcomer, and serene syllables slipped from her mouth. “Greetings. Welcome to Helovia.” She raised her sienna eyes to stare into the depths of the other, honeyed, sugared and candied, the sweet snippets of a greater clemency. “I’m Lena, and this is Imogen. Who are you?” Another question formed in the back of her membrane, floating and ambivalent, prying and curious, not to be asked in this juncture. What do you seek?

A small noise disrupts you from your delirium, wary eyes cast upon the strange fox as she greets you with warmth. Strange thing, you think, pausing within inches of the blue-tinged form. Despite the questions that race through your mind she is met with silence on your part, for you are too curious and full of questions to push anything out, though your wide eyes, childish expression, speak volumes. Helovia, another says, a pleasant smile instantly lifting your face from the depths of half-hearted solitude. Lena, Imogen - the pieces fall together and you look back to the creature at your feet with benevolence. 'You're very pretty, Imogen.' You sigh slowly, feigning a dream-like quality as if to say that you wish you could compare in beauty before crinkling your nose in amusement and rather abruptly looking to the girl which trailed the fox so eagerly. 'Wolf.' The darkness of her skin draws you then, eyes tracing along the shadows as they dance, concealed within the earth-toned silk. A feeling of something like envy pricks at your heart as you find the intensity of her gaze; you are not so pretty as her. You lack the maturity within your young, awkward bones, your skin stretched against the fragile framework. Your hair is too disheveled, where hers falls easily and beautifully. You are too caught up to know how ridiculous it would sound, should you voice your silly insecurities. It doesn’t make a difference. 'Could you show me something, something that I've never seen before?'

Newcomers were often treated to a world of mysteries, and Lena didn’t have the heart to tell them that they’d never uncover all the secrets, all the furtive, specious layers and runes amidst the lacquered quandaries, the enameled enigmas aligned and maligned to copses, to glades, to lakes, rivers and streams. Curiosity would build, would brim, would brew until there was naught to do become the enlightened, twist and turn bodies into inquisitive canvases, studying the lay of the earth before them as they crossed over primrose paths, worn trails leading to broken hymns, altered routes presaging serenity. Whatever road they traversed and traveled, nomads, gypsies, foreign, strange souls embarking on life-changing quests, they’d find themselves changed, shaped and sharpened to the grasp and grip they either yearned for, or repelled. The sylph examined the other femme, watched and witnessed through her warm amber gaze, the wide-eyed wonder at Imogen’s presence, the childish glee of her warbling existence, of the warm greeting she’s been bestowed by either species. The kitsune gave her own steady reply in turn, a tender, mellifluous chirrup, a practiced bow copied from her fey companion. The fae’s heralding - Wolf - a powerful name for a creature, noble, regal, a wild, ruffian flare that encompassed so many attributes that Lena’s spirit of inquiry couldn’t be oppressed, tilting her head to fondly regard an ethereal figure given formality of dominating, fierce fire. How did she acquire her calling? Had she been born strong and savage, quick and swift, blossoming in a fair, welcoming family, sharing the wealth of her knowledge, the candor of her spirit? Did she bloom in the shadows, courting intelligence, cunning, willful and dominating? Did she nest in the sunlight, unafraid, undaunted, by the wake of the world before her? She spoke again, her words a tender trace, trance, on the wind, longing for a touch of the unknown. Yet, Lena doesn’t know what she hasn’t seen, what she hasn’t touched, what she hasn’t tasted, which incantations she hasn’t hummed beneath her breath, what worlds she hasn’t graced, which dangers she hasn’t intertwined within her heart. So, quietly, drifting on a song, on a harp, on a laurel, the nymph spoke again, offering a lifeline if given the right lane to voyage, to odyssey. “What do you wish to see?”